


Striking Deals

by Skalidra



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Bargaining, Demigods, Fights, M/M, Rating for later chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-12 07:35:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11157225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: Slade rarely pays any true attention to the wars of mortals, despite it being his domain. But every once in awhile something resonates out of key with the rest, someone not wholly mortal interfering without his blessing, and well, then he has reason to be interested. In this case it's one lone demi-god, convinced of his own right to defend the mortal place he calls 'home', despite his godly side. That's easy enough to deal with.





	Striking Deals

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! So this is only going to be like two-three chapters, which it shouldn't even be that long but as these things do it got out of hand. (I partially blame Fire, but also just me.) Enjoy!

It's rare that Slade pays more than passing attention to the world's conflicts. Oh, he gives his blessing where the proper tributes are given, makes the occasional appearance to drive home the truth of his existence to those who may not quite believe, and grants gifts to those warriors of exquisite talent. All part and parcel of his role, and the fervor of the humans feeds his strength; that's one of their only uses, really. (He enjoys it best when both sides pay to receive his blessing, and the conflicts stretch out long and bloody until one side finally claws on top. Amusing, and as warm in his chest as the finest ambrosia.)

However, every once in awhile something in the tone of a battle calls his attention. Something out of rhythm; a fight turned away from its intended outcome by the interference of some outside force, something unnatural. Rare — most times the rest of his 'kind' have no cause to disturb the games he plays with the mortals — but not unheard of, and the feeling of it is like the annoyance of an itch. Difficult to ignore, so why should he try?

The mirror on the wall shifts its view to the mortal world at a touch of his fingertips, focusing in on this one battle that's as off-key as a sour note. It's a large one, perhaps a thousand soldiers on one side, seven-hundred on the other, and yet the smaller force is winning. Interesting.

Slade follows that sour note, focusing it down to— Ah, yes. That would do it.

The man, deep in the very center of the fight, is just above average height, black haired, blue-eyed. The smooth, olive skin stretched over the leanness of his frame is lightly slicked with sweat, speckled in the blood of those he's killed, but he moves with a power and a grace that is distinctly _not_ mortal. Not a god, but certainly with more than a touch of someone's powers. The soldiers before him don't stand a chance; no wonder the tide of this battle has been shifted.

Well, that just can't be allowed.

Slade steps away from the mirror, summoning his armor to him with a snap of his fingers — black leather from beasts no mortal man could imagine, tied together with orange cloth woven from the finest, strongest spider silk — before he closes his eyes, pulling himself to the mortal world and following the call of that battle. He waits above it for a short time, hidden, until there's an opening in the space around the interloper.

The _crack_ of his entrance, and the rush of power off his frame, sends the soldiers of both sides reeling back with cries of alarm. Blue eyes stare up at him, widening as the man takes one step back, two. Fear all but gushes from him, his hands tightening on the hilt of his sword, the grip of his shield. Slade draws one of his swords with an idle flick of motion, ignoring the mortals creating an ever-widening circle around them.

"Demi-god," he greets, drawing the second sword much more slowly, drawing out the rasp of metal with a curling smile. "You're hardly offering a fair fight to these mortals; why don't you try someone who can match your power, little one?"

The man shifts, shield coming up, jaw clenching down. "I don't want to fight you," is the call, across the space between them, "but this army threatens my home. I have the right to defend it!"

"Your home?" he mocks, moving closer, circling the demi-god. "Some human town? Or are you talking about the realm of whatever god created you? Are they watching you today, little one? Does your parent know the mistake you've made by stepping into my domain?"

"I have the right to defend my home," the man repeats, matching his circling to keep him in sight. "War may be yours, but I _have the right_ to fight in it."

"Maybe," he grants, "but this army paid for my blessing. Whether they win or lose doesn't matter to me, but _you_ interfere with whatever that natural outcome may be." He stops, lets the tip of one sword dip low enough to rest against the dirt beneath them as he gives a low laugh. "You want to prove your case, boy? Fight me. You _are_ a demi-god, aren't you? Maybe you have the skill to do _some_ damage to me. Score five hits, and I'll leave you to your battle."

He can see the flare of hope in the man's eyes, the flicker of interest and then the coolness of strategy. "You'll hit me five times long before I do the same to you. Weren't you the one talking about 'fair fights'?"

"I don't remember saying that this went both ways," Slade points out, letting his smile widen to a small grin. "When I've won, you'll know it, boy."

"And if you do? What happens then?"

"I take you from this battlefield until the conflict is done, to somewhere safe where you can't interfere with it. When it's over, you'll be free to go." He shifts, sliding one foot back along the dirt, letting his power gather beneath his skin until the air crackles with it, sparks sliding down the length of his swords. "So are you going to fight, boy? Or are you going to die?"

The boy breathes out, somewhat shakily, but lifts his head high. "I accept the terms."

"The deal is struck," he answers, and smiles. "Come on then, boy. Do your best."

He's quick. Clever. He doesn't lunge in like so many would but waits for Slade to move first, choosing to react instead of push aggression. Not that it makes much difference.

The first strike of Slade's sword breaks the demi-god's mortal-made shield, but to his credit, it only staggers him for a moment. The pieces are thrown at his face and the boy pushes off the ground and flips higher into the air than any mortal could, untethered by the confines of the earth beneath him. The sword follows a moment later, and by the time the boy's feet touch the ground again he has two rods in his hands instead, the ends crackling with lightning. Slade laughs — _those_ certainly weren't made by any mortal hand — and engages; these tools hold beneath the weight of his swords.

It doesn't save the boy from taking the flat of one blade across his upper back, knocking him to his knees. Slade nicks the side of his throat as a sign of victory, moving away and giving the boy room to get back to his feet, albeit with less breath than before.

When Slade moves in again, the boy ducks one sword, diverts the other, and then raps the side of his hand with one of the rods. There's no real strength to it, though the lightning stings for a moment, but the boy retreats with one earned hit, regardless. The terms of their arrangement was never that they be _hard_ blows, and clearly the boy's realized it. Smart; very in line with who his father obviously is. (The lightning, the near-flight, are both clear enough signs. The Bat has always had far too many children running about.)

“Smart boy,” he grants, with a twist of the sword in that rapped hand. “Do you think you’re fast enough to do that four more times?”

The demi-god shifts his weight, rods spinning in his hands and trailing arcs of energy. “I have to be.”

Slade scoffs, moves in and in four easy movements — this demi-god’s pattern isn’t much harder to read than a mortal’s, if he tries — has the boy on the ground, stunned from a backhand with enough power to crush the skull of any normal human. Blue eyes stare up at him, struggling to focus, and Slade scoffs and trails the tip of one sword along the boy’s side as he circles him.

“So blindly determined, just like your father.” He leaves another stinging scratch on the opposite side of the boy’s throat, despite the wide strike of one of those rods to try and stop him. Slade steps away as he struggles up to his feet, giving the boy a second to breathe, to get his feet under him, however shaky they may be. “I’ve fought him too, you know. Can you take punishment like he can?”

The boy bares teeth at him, breathing harder and with feet far more planted than they were a minute ago. Yes, that’s an excellent start.

Slade finds himself enjoying the fight, despite how one-sided it is. The boy is fairly skilled, enough to dodge at least a couple strikes before Slade inevitably hits him again. Only with the flat of his swords for now, apart from the small nicks he claims every time he lands a solid blow. The boy’s throat is streaked in red. None of it is anything close to real damage, but the bits of blood have been caught up in sweat and smeared down across his skin so it appears like much more damage than it is. It’s not dissimilar to the sort of ‘blood-streaked’ war paint that some soldiers wear before battle.

Slade appreciates the view, and adds to it bit by bit, until the demi-god is breathing in harsh, hitching gasps. He’s favoring his right side, trying to stay light on his feet but not fully accomplishing it, not with the exertion of the fight weighing down his steps. The side of his face, where Slade struck his first backhand, is just beginning to spot red beneath the skin. The precursor to a truly impressive bruise, he’s sure. Not even a demi-god’s resistance to harm can stand up against the might of a true god.

“Tired?” he mocks, as he circles the mortal. “Want to surrender, little one?”

That determination comes out in the form of a snarl, fingers tightening on the rods. “We’re not done,” is the breathless reply, gaze following him as the boy adjusts to keep his back and side protected. “Getting bored?”

Slade smiles instead of answering, and strikes.

The boy lasts a couple minutes more before Slade knocks one of the rods from his hand. He can’t guard from both swords with only a single rod, and the second one is quick to follow, spinning off to land in the dirt without any true hope of recovery. Not that it would be impossible, but Slade has no intention of allowing it to be retrieved. The boy’s entertaining enough that no, he isn’t bored, but it’s time for this fight to end. To stretch it out any longer would be close to cruelty, and though Slade considers himself that on occasion, this won’t be one of them.

The boy tries to move away, gain ground to give himself a breath, but this time Slade follows. The injured side works in conjunction with the exhaustion, slowing the boy and only allowing him to dodge a mere handful of the slices from his swords before his remaining energy simply doesn’t allow him to move fast enough. Slade turns the sword, once again, so only the broad side impacts with the boy’s shoulder, sending him staggering sideways. He moves in as the demi-god pants, head hung low and limbs trembling. One of his swords flicks up, tapping the boy’s back as he gets closer with exactly enough force to stagger him a single step forward.

The boy’s foot hits the dirt to stabilize, and then it’s twisting to turn him in a sudden burst of movement. Fast, with a last, desperate shout of intention and a wide-swinging fist. Slade pulls back but the blow still clips the very edge of his chin. The raw power behind it snaps his head to the side, cracks his teeth together with a sharp sound, and it actually _stings_.

But everything he had left was apparently in that swing, and his arm wraps around his side as he half-falls, only barely keeping his feet. It’s not enough to earn him that five-hit win he needed, and it’s certainly not enough to turn the tide of the battle.

A blow to the back of one knee sweeps the boy’s feet out from under him and lands him on his back in the dirt, grimacing and arching as the breath is knocked out of him. Slade steps forward, bringing one of his swords forward and in beneath the demi-god’s throat to nudge his chin up, making the victory clear. The boy gives beneath the threat, hands lifting in surrender as he struggles to breathe, eyes squeezing shut for a few moments before looking up. Slade takes the time to sheathe his secondary sword, leaving him a hand free to raise to his lip. It comes away just slightly bloody.

“Hm.” He rubs the bit of blood between his fingers, lips curling into a small smirk (and the minor split of his lip actually stings, how about that). “Not bad, boy. Not many mortals can claim they’ve made a god bleed. Still… You lose, little one.”

He doesn’t get any answer, but given the heaving of the boy’s chest he isn’t expecting to. Mortals do tend to need breath to speak.

Slade pulls the other sword away, sheathing it with the same easy carelessness as the first before he kneels down, tipping the boy’s chin up with his fingers instead. Blue eyes meet his; wary, exhausted, but still determined. Power thrums against his fingers, contained beneath the fragile, mortal skin and yet to be fully understood, let alone used. A true demi-god can be a magnificent thing once trained and tempered; like the finest war horse. If they’re worth the effort.

He smiles.

A twist of his free hand calls both of the demi-god’s little toys to his hand, no longer spitting lightning from the ends, but still a solid weight and very distinctly not of any mortal metal. A gift from his father, perhaps? Or did the boy gain a favor from some craft-god? Maybe Slade will return them later, if he’s feeling charitable. (Or maybe he’ll keep them to add to his collection; he has quite a stockpile of various god-forged weapons already, but none quite like these.)

He releases the minor dulling of sound he’d enforced around their fight, letting the sounds of the battle feed back in. The boy startles, gaze flicking to the side, and Slade allows him a single moment to remember all the rest of the chaos around them before he asks a rhetorical, “Shall we go then, little demi-god?”

A sharp inhalation, gaze snapping back to him, and Slade meets it with a not entirely friendly smile as he pulls them both through the worlds between. It lasts barely the blink of an eye, and then they’re back in his realm. The boy flinches away from the tile he’s now lying on, eyes widening as he jerks and looks around the throne room he’s brought them to. As a concession, Slade gives him time to adjust to the travel, getting to his feet and dispelling his armor with a thought as he waits for the boy to take in his new surroundings. (He gives it a little extra flare, making it dissolve and curl off into smoke, for the effect.)

The rods he makes disappear in a similar fashion, sending them off to sit in his trophy room, to be given a true spot later. When he wants to take the time to fit them somewhere.

Then he turns back, looks down to find the demi-god turning onto his side, grimacing in pain as he pushes off the ground. Slade only watches, letting the boy struggle to his feet on his own, a hand pressed to his side and his breath coming through gritted teeth. When he finally does manage to straighten up, it’s only for the most part. His shoulders stay slightly rounded, his head lowered, the leg that took that final blow trembling slightly as it bears his weight.

Mortals are so very fragile.

“Is this your realm?” the boy grits out, gaze flickering to the currently normal mirror against the wall before returning to Slade.

“Yes.”

He moves forward, ignoring the half-step backwards that the demi-god manages before he closes the distance. Reaching for the boy earns him a glare, but he curls his fingers around the back of his neck anyway, to hold him in place and to tilt his head up to bring those tired, narrowed blue eyes to focus on him. There’s a wince as his fingers brush the myriad of cuts he left scattered on the boy’s throat, smearing blood across both their skins, but it’s hardly a pain that’s important enough to cater to. He’s a demi-god and a warrior; he can take a little pain.

“What’s your name, boy?” Slade asks, sparing only a passing glance down to take the full measure of the boy’s state. He’ll need a bath.

“Grayson,” is the answer, still through gritted teeth. “Dick Grayson. And what do I call _you?_ ”

His mouth curves into a small smile. “You can call me god if you want to, but ‘Slade’ will do fine as well.” He tilts Grayson’s head to the side, making his glance at the sluggishly bleeding cuts obvious before he releases him. “There’s a bath through there,” he offers, with a flick towards one of the arches separating the rooms of his home, “the water will heal your injuries. You’ll find various clothes inside; take whatever fits.”

He gets a glare in response, as Grayson grinds out, “I’d rather not.”

“Then it’s good I wasn’t asking,” he counters, letting this second smile be a little sharper. “Go get clean, little mortal. The fight will take longer than a bath; you won’t miss anything.”

Grayson’s hand presses a little harder to his injured side, and he pauses for a couple long moments — right on the edge of where Slade considers just hefting the boy over his shoulder and carrying him in — before lifting his chin and saying, “I don’t answer to you, _Slade_. I won’t stay here any longer than I have to.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Understood,” he drawls, barely resisting making it outright mocking. “ _Go_ , unless you need a little incentive?”

Before the boy can make up his mind about that, Slade lifts a hand and snaps his fingers, vanishing the cloth and armor covering the boy into curls of smoke off to one of his storages, leaving him utterly nude apart from what blood and dirt has managed to make its way onto skin. The sharp cry of shock and outrage, and the flail of hands to make a vain attempt at covering those ‘important’ bits, is almost as amusing as the fight itself was. He chuckles, letting himself take his time admiring the skin revealed as the boy backs towards the arch he’d indicated, blushing bright but glaring through it. Embarrassed and angry is a good look on him. As is naked, for that matter.

Slade watches until Grayson vanishes through the arch, getting one glance at a truly excellent ass before he’s out of sight. Then, despite the minor temptation to follow and watch, Slade turns and crosses to the mirror on the wall. A touch of his fingers changes it to a view of the battlefield, and he leaves it there before he strides out of the room.

The boy is entertaining (and not bad looking, for a mortal; perhaps worth exploring), but he has other things to attend to. He can return later.

* * *

He takes his time seeing to his realm, both the boundaries as well as the beasts he keeps as more or less immortal companions. It isn’t until he feels the battle he’s keeping a vague sense of start to wind down to its last sparks that he heads back to his throne room.

Grayson is sitting in front of the mirror, watching the battle unfold with his arms wrapped around his knees, brow drawn into an upset frown. He’s clean now, dressed in a set of rich, black and blue robes that covers him from now-healed neck to the tops of his bare feet. They seem somewhat big on him, but really whatever the boy chooses to wear doesn’t matter to him. It isn’t like his store of clothing gets much use, unless one of his children happens to come through.

“It’s nearly done,” is what he announces himself with.

Grayson startles, taking in a sharp breath and whipping around. He nearly trips over the folds of the robes as he scrambles to his feet, which is amusing in its own right, and Slade lets the boy flail and then manage to steady himself without interference before he approaches. He keeps a small distance between them, only barely pressing the confines of his personal space as he stands beside him, looking up at the mirror.

The little demi-god still shifts a half-step to the side. There’s a moment of pause before a tight, “How much longer?”

Slade rolls both shoulders in a shrug, tilting his head as he studies the battlefield shown on the mirror. “Perhaps a turn of the hourglass; perhaps longer. Time doesn’t mean to me what it does to you. A battle is like a fire, and as it consumes itself it dies down till only the ashes remain. This battle has only a few sparks left to it, but how long the embers take to die is the mortals’ choice. It depends on when your side breaks, how long the others pursue, when both sides are finished with killing…” He offers a smirk, and reaches over to flick the boy’s chin up. The swat at his hand never gets close to touching him. “Relax, little one. It will be soon enough.”

“Those are my _friends_ ,” Grayson snaps at him, turning to face him more directly. “Don’t you dare tell me to relax; they’re _dying_. I could have saved them, I could have protected them if you hadn’t dragged me away from that fight!”

“Possibly,” he grants. “But you didn’t belong on that battlefield, so I suppose we’ll never know.”

The boy steps forward, breaking the barrier of space between them and glaring up with outrage driven by a clearly deep hurt. “ _I_ didn’t belong?! You’re a _god!_ Where do you get off interfering with mortal battles?!”

Slade meets the rage, letting one corner of his mouth twist into a fainter version of his earlier smirk. The boy is _brilliant_ when he’s furious; the feel of _power_ off him is really a lovely treat. “If you wanted to fight, you should have given the same offerings as your enemies. They paid for my blessing, and that extends to keeping little _interferences_ like you out of the way. If your ‘friends’ had done the same, I would have let them bring whatever weapons they wanted to the battle, demi-god or not. I didn’t interfere with the battle, Grayson, just _you_.”

He takes a step then, bringing them close enough that Grayson’s eyes flicker wide and he flinches back. Using that moment of surprise to wrap his fingers around the boy’s throat and lift him off the ground is easy. He chokes, fingers scraping at Slade’s wrist but not with enough power or intention to do any real harm, suspended a few inches off the ground, enough to put them at a more even height.

“You’re entertaining, boy,” he says, more quietly, “but the only demi-gods allowed on my battlefields are the ones that belong to me. You don’t. I don’t care what you think you’re entitled to; war is my domain, and you will stay out of it.” The boy gasps a breath, staggering, as Slade lets him drop back to the floor. “Next time, there won’t be any deals; I’ll snap your neck before your heart has time to beat.”

He leaves the boy standing there, a hand raised to his throat, and turns to go to his throne.

From behind him there’s a slightly roughened, “You promised that I would be free to go when the battle was done.”

There’s an edge to his voice that Slade recognizes, and that makes him pause, consider for a moment before he decides that he doesn’t really _want_ to have to kill this one. The Bat is a protective god at the best of times, and having to kill one of his children would earn ire and aggression that he doesn’t particularly want to deal with. He’s always up for a fight, but ambushes and tricks aren’t a style of fight he’s as fond of as a straight out battle. Fighting the Bat is… tiring, most times. And not always an assured victory.

“No,” he counters over his shoulder, “I promised that you would be free to go when the _conflict_ was done. You can’t be trusted to stay out of the war; you’ll stay here till it’s over.”

“What? No! These are my friends, my home! You can’t—!”

“I’m a _god_ , boy.” He looks back over his shoulder as he steps onto the dais of the throne. “A deal was struck; you should be more careful of what you agree to. You’ll be safe here until the war is over.”

The boy stares at him, caught once more between anger and shocked hurt. He takes the throne before Grayson manages to recover and follow him, something in his expression that’s determined and pained and wild all at once. It’s interesting enough that he only tilts his head and studies it as Grayson comes to stand just in front of him, hands curled to fists, jaw set.

“What would it take?” is the demand, Grayson’s gaze focused unerringly on his remaining eye.

Slade raises that eyebrow in question.

Grayson shifts, his stance squaring. “What would it take for you to let me go back to the war? To let me defend what I care about?”

Now _that’s_ interesting.

“You want to make another deal, little one?” he asks, watching the familiar determined cast to his features. He truly is like his father. “You want this that badly?”

“Yes.”

It’s an intriguing idea. Not many mortals, even demi-gods, actively seek to make deals with him. The others of his kind are more prone to bargaining, whereas he’s always simply taken what he wants; the perks of being more combat oriented than most of the others. Most simply sacrifice to him, say the proper rites, and leave it at that. Then again, he usually doesn’t interact face to face with many mortals; a king or two, or a few particularly gifted combatants. He isn’t a god that most have reason to want to speak to.

“What are you willing to offer?” he asks, keeping his expression cool, his gaze as intent as Grayson’s is.

Grayson hesitates, swallows, and then tilts his chin up and simply says, “Name your price.”

He pushes off his throne, getting back to his feet to look down at the boy and watching how he only barely resists stepping back. He lifts a hand, brushing his fingers over the curve of the boy’s jaw before sliding his thumb beneath it to tilt it up. Grayson shivers at the slide of fingers against the side of his throat, but doesn’t pull away.

“You want to put that much power in my hands, Grayson?”

This time, he can feel how Grayson swallows, see the little thread of uncertainty in his eyes. “You’re a god. How am I supposed to know what you want?”

So many possibilities. There are artifacts that the boy’s father possesses that he’s wanted for longer than any mortal’s life, or having a demi-god warrior he can call on to fight as he wishes is always a decent idea. But he has his own children for that, and though those items the Bat holds are powerful, they will always be there. He can steal them at some other point. There are more physical things that he could demand, but those are all so temporary. Fleeting.

And the boy is _desperate_.

“Your life,” he says, and watches Grayson’s eyes widen. “I let you go and fight in your war till its conclusion, and then you return to me and spend the rest of your life here. The chance to save their lives, in exchange for yours.”

“I… Why would you want that?”

“Reasons aren’t part of our terms. That’s my price, little demi-god. Do you accept?”

The boy flounders, staring up at him, mouth parting and then closing again. “What would you expect from me?” he asks after a moment, visibly shaken but still questioning. He’s learning.

“You won’t try and escape, and you won’t work with anyone, be that your father or any other power, to try and bring me or what belongs to me down.” He tilts the boy’s head up a little farther, lowering his voice. “You’ll be treated fairly, and you’ll never lack for any material necessity.”

Another moment of tense hesitation, and then the boy grinds his teeth together and demands, “If there are other wars, I want to be part of those too.”

He smiles. “Done. If the kingdom you call home ever engages in other wars, I’ll release you for the duration of them if you wish. You’ll return when it’s done.”

“And I’ll be free to fight?”

Slade hums agreement, and then expands, “As mine, you will be allowed on my battlefields, for whichever side you choose to fight for.”

The boy takes a breath, gives a small nod, and then asks, “And my family? My brothers, sisters… Can I see them?”

He considers for a couple moments, and then inclines his head to concede, “The humans you’ll have to say goodbye to. The other demi-gods may visit you here on occasion, if they behave while in my realm. No more than one at a time.”

For the first time, Grayson’s expression eases a little bit in relief. His hands clench tighter, but those blue eyes are relatively steady. “Deal. I accept.”

The smile that curls his mouth is a satisfied thing. “Deal,” he agrees. “Let’s get you back to your war then, shall we? You’ll need armor—” he slips the hand he has on the boy’s jaw down his neck, vanishing away the black and blue robe and recalling the armored outfit he took earlier; still stained with dirt and blood, but ah well “—and I imagine you’ll want these back.” He lifts his other hand, summoning the god-forged rods back and then offering them. Grayson takes them slightly hesitantly, and Slade ignores the hesitance to ask, “Would you like a blade as well? A shield?”

“No, I— I’m fine with these.”

“Very well.” He lifts a hand to take Grayson’s shoulder, but pauses before he reaches for the power to take him back to the mortal world. “One warning, boy, before I send you on your way. Try to break our deal, in any way, and I’ll make sure the armies loyal to me raze your home to the ground.” The boy inhales sharply, and Slade offers a smile, reaches for that power. “I’ll see you at the end of the war, Grayson.”

The boy’s gone before he can come up with a response, and Slade turns his attention to the mirror to watch him reappear. Behind enemy lines, to give him an advantage. He’s only startled for a moment, then he sets to work; Slade can feel the flame of the battle flare up again, and allows himself a small chuckle.

Yes, this ought to be interesting.

**Author's Note:**

> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)


End file.
